Day 30 of Poetry Month - April 2016

Today's the last day of Poetry month for another year. I'll still be posting, just not as often, in the future.

Clear Night – Wolves
               For Robert

Still
abstract.
Dark pack, canis lupus,
screened by slender strokes of twenty
feeble saplings, show no fear, but look at
you
directly,
sense presence, but cannot make you out,
show respect to an equal member.
Now they know,

they melt away.

© Catherine Woods 2000

Day 29 of Poetry Month - April 2016

Another Robert Bateman poem.

Merganser Family in Hiding

                   For Robert

Among the spindle twigs,

advancing on old forgotten roots,

float a family. Lily pads,

Spiritually hand painted, reflecting

an omnipresent spring-like lustre;

a feathered audience retires.

© Catherine Woods 1998

Day 28 of Poetry Month - April 2016

I wrote about six poems based on Robert Bateman paintings. The last three days will include those.

Wildebeests at Sunset

             For Robert Bateman

God made them with bits and pieces he had left;

an African antelope

with horns above and shaggy beard below.

As the Kenyan sun hazes liquid gold over all

before it drops,

a herd gathers for the night in mellow mood.

© Catherine Woods 1998

Day 27 of Poetry Month - April 2016

Friends, who I haven't spoken to in years, still affect my thoughts. Especially if they've had a tough life.

Bathroom Batik

            For Nancy

The yellow crescent casts

a shadow over daisies,

stark-white and set alone.

Unnamed birds soar above

an orange landscape caught

off guard by tan-buffed clouds.

Colour true and waxen

cloth speak loud of you as

I sit upon the throne.

© Catherine Woods 1998

Day 26 of Poetry Month

The sun is shining and I'm feeling good today. I was looking back at the many trips I've made to Paris, France. A great city with so many sights and lots of very tasty food.

Les Trois Moutons en Mai

Eating outside on the street at a Chaillot café,

looking back— à la vie laissé derrière.

Remembering old friends not seen in years;

remembering— une grande fête avec vous —

toasting with a respectable Bordeaux.

Feasting on— brie et raisins avec des craquelins —

Wondering how the old homestead is; 

writing a postcard— à ma grand-mère —

lost in the past.

Entering—la future—

Living and loving the thought of it all—

ici à Paris.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2016

Day 25 of Poetry Month - April 2016

I sometimes get inspiration from National Geographic.

Reviving the bay

Cold crashing splashes wash dry black mud, hiding

smoothed stones

and edible quahogs.

No buried treasure of gold sovereigns or pop cans or

milk bottles

for return appear.

Incessant destruction of towering cliffs

reveal the ancient sages

and distressing winds.

A solitary harbour seal wanders in from Atlantic waters

seeking shelter from forceful advances

and perhaps a chance to sleep.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2000

Day 23 and 24 of Poetry Month - April 2016

A friend's daughter died when she was only 7 years old. My daughter and her daughter had the same name. It still haunts me.

Ode to Nancy’s daughter
Your not-so-jolly
jotting creates a crash
on to futility. Your Sarah’s
dead.
    I cry.
To think I’ll never
see her smile,
hear her laugh,
watch her eat an orange
    slice by slice.
Now you’re getting back to life,
such as it is,
wishing it were more,
sometimes finding yourself
thinking about fate,
future celebrations
    not played out,
paths crossing, stopping, beginning
again and
again.
Your down-to-earth
noting prompts a jolt
of reality. I cry and
cry.
    I’d mail you a hug
If I could. These words,
they are not enough,
but let them be
an offering of remembrance,
my friend.

© Catherine Woods 1998

And now another favourite topic of mine, geography.

In the Valley of the Moon, Alberta
Wind-weathered mounds of
what used to Archaeopteryx,
gravel formed from eroded Pteranodons,
blasted by elements for millions
of eons before we arrived,
so long before we took our first steps.
Grasses bend in breezes
melded for centuries fossils of
Apatosaurus, Raptor, and Stegosaurs.
All that is left
of such stately specimens
is dust
curiously raw.

© Catherine Woods 1998

Day 22 of Poetry Month - April 2016 - Earth Day

In honour of Earth Day.

Along the shores of Georgian Bay, Ontario

The wind that blows 

and the snow it throws

carve glyphics

in the cold rock scree.

Imprisoned they are

for millions of years

relaying their tales

of sleet, rain, and hail.

Only a select few tilting

fir soldiers remain

on duty watch, till

the next barrage commences.

© Catherine Woods 1998, 2016

Day 21 of Poetry Month - April 2016

Another look back and forward to the page. I've given myself permission to write these words, without any regret. I feel so much better.

Poetry’s Bare Facts

naked elimination of the soul; facing the bare-faced 

truth stripped down to the blood 

and bone; raw flesh seething, oozing passion

out of every pore; a complete and utter lack of

bodily containment.

breathing the most I can; holding back nothing

but time itself;

writing and not thinking; letting the thoughts

escaped unrestrained; to be expressed

as merely words, a letter here,

a letter there, a colon, a hyphen,

space space.

fingers, an extension of the mind used for no unearthly

reason but to server the Muse.

an urge uncontrolled,

calmly ebbing,

peacefully returning to its home.

© Catherine Woods 1994 – 2016

Two days in the middle of April 2016 - Poetry Month

The following two poems are from my 'box of words', a packing box that's been with me since the mid-1990s. 

Fresh Breezes

lilies scent sweetly as

sun’s dust rays glide by

through a leaf-net canopy;

I perceive the sky.

the wind whistles blissfully through

clouds that dissipate while

robins sing overtures to angles of love;

I lie with a lover of rapture.

wine fills my senses to

lighten my head;

my eyes see a hero,

“no fighting”, you said;

cool breathes the forest of willow white daisies;

off on a wave of joy and deceptions I fall;

pillows of velvet moss cushion the blow;

for the lover of nature I knew

long ago.

© Catherine Woods 1980 - 1998

Words That Create Images, Do So Falsely

An indifferent sky

covers a forget-me-not forest.

Pantomine birds

nest in pentagon trees.

Slowly, not softly,

the hideous sun casts its shadow

over false grass

sprouting forth at rocks’ knees.

A vision of loveliness

oozing with loneliness

creates a substantial reward

for the mind.

© Catherine Woods 1980 - 1998

Day 16, 17, and 18 of Poetry Month - April 2016

I'm feeling a lot better today. Here's three poems.

Autumn Sunset

Yellow orange red purple blue grey
All colours mixed together
A painting fresh on canvas
Early evening highlights time
Oils and watercolours do no justice to the scene before me
A miracle of light and no light, earth rotating passed its point
Eyes see and the heart feels wondrous freedom
Colours fight black, but black always wins and night comes unaccepted unexpectedly fast
Yellow
Orange
Red
Purple
Blue
Grey
Black
Black
Black……..

© 2010 Surrey, BC

Reviving the Bay

Cold crashing splashes wash dry black mud, hiding

smoothed stones

and edible quahogs.

No buried treasure of gold sovereigns or pop cans or

milk bottles

for return appear.

Incessant destruction of towering cliffs

reveal the ancient sages

and distressing winds.

A solitary harbour seal wanders in from Atlantic waters

seeking shelter from forceful advances

and perhaps a chance to sleep.

© 1999 Surrey, BC

New Worlds

New worlds came out of old revolutions.

May they never return us to the garden

Or we will die a silent, painless death

Forever forgiving our future evil deeds.

© 1975 Kingston, ON

Day 13, 14, and 15 of Poetry Month

I've been sick. This is my excuse for not posting for the past three days. So I'll post three poems today.

Your music leads me to my ancient home

      for Loreena

 

You

wore wine;

I wore green.

Incandescent

sky, mint-blue grasses

joined; one inspiration,

one chalice. You lured me through

a portal to your history.

Senses overwhelmed with mandolin

and harp. Moons crescent by standing

stones; spirits gather, relieved,

I am returned. Concrete

shadows have gone soft.

No mists on the

rolling hills,

remain

still.

[copyright 1998]

Take a life that’s your own

for Heather, only she knows why

I call out, but no one is listening

respectively,

so I kick over the chair.

I write a note, but it is read

mistakenly,

so you do not understand.

I grab for life to save me from falling;

decomposing,

it slips from my hand.

I wait alone for my redemption;

assuredly,

God calls my name.

[copyright 1999]

Daughter’s Forgiveness

      On Mother’s Day 2013

So many wish their mothers well

Make them breakfast

Wash their cars

Paint their toenails

Wish them a happy, special day

Phone them long distance

Bring them coffee and Danish in bed

Do their laundry

Wash the dishes

Brew a cuppa tea

Fluff their pillows

Buy them a chrysanthemum.

But you’re not alive

So I can’t do the niceties

Or say kind words

Or hug

Or kiss

Only cry.

I miss you, Mom.

So on this Mother’s Day,

I’ll give you the only gift I can

My forgiveness

Of the things you didn’t say or do.

I love you.

I LOVE YOU.

[copyright May 2013]

Day 12 of April 

Some of what I write is angry and sad. I figure it's better on the page than in my head.

Sadistic Killers

Bats

and red velvet

chase June through October;

mysteries abound as

unlikely strangers meet

in between knife

edges. The eyes

entwined, (our) legs

encased in frozen blood;

surface tension

exudes through pores and

troughs,

throughout sonar echoes lost

on moistened corpses.

A dress your mother wouldn’t 

be caught live in sits

upright; makeup stains

blank faces;

icicles refuse to melt

into view;

focus to know

the whereabouts

of death.

flap flap flap

Knife die,

victim live.

[© 1998]

Poetry Month - Day 11

The result of another exercise: writing from a photograph.

Reviving the Bay

Cold crashing splashes wash dry black mud, hiding

smoothed stones

and edible quahogs.

No buried treasure of gold sovereigns or pop cans or

milk bottles

for return appear.

Incessant destruction of towering cliffs

reveal the ancient sages

and distressing winds.

A solitary harbour seal wanders in from Atlantic waters

seeking shelter from forceful advances

and perhaps a chance to sleep.

© 1999 Surrey, BC

Tenth Day of April

I tried to expand my style. An exercise in using another's words to extend your own.

When time again resigns itself to fail

      Rekindle

      the violet to the very

      lady 's-slipper

      — W. C. Williams

Choose how to close this day and then begin to alter 

all the recipes for a setting sun, dip slowly into 

oranges and blues — clear out the shadows. 

Rekindle night by a fairy's wand

replacing snow with snow and rain with rain;

throughout the virgin meadows, grasses grow 

to reach beyond the stars — if light is thought 

and thought is brighter here; the violet to the 

very end wilts

in a passionate way, smiling through pain 

and time's most recent failure to recall the 

meaning of itself— a lady's slipper 

pause to cry.

[Copyright 1998]

April 9, 2016

I was busy today, so I'm late posting. An older thought today.

(You want a) Divorce

I grab your wrist

under never-ending dinosaur-movie skies.

I can’t take my eyes off of you.

Dancing in the dark of

crisp November nights,

hidden from others by pine cones,

I slap your face.

You want to end it.

It’s not your money I want,

it’s you.

As raindrops drown my heart,

your tears blend in and

I break down,

consummated in

pain.

[© 1999]

The Eighth of April

The weather here is gorgeous and has been for a few days. I find fine weather brings the muse out.

Box of Words

I’m sitting on a box words

that came out of my head,

all neatly printed on scraps of page

with lines crossed out and new words added haphazardly

to sentence ends and paragraph beginnings.

Some of the words are mine;

some belong to another woman who isn’t here

anymore. She left to travel the world,

in search of a happier life and fuller purse.

I miss her now and then, but her words of wisdom and hope

help me pass through with my restless days

and sleepless nights.

© April 2016

Day 7 of Poetry Month

I find I get my inspiration from everywhere. News, books, surroundings and life are all jumping-off points. The following came after visiting the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen classical garden. I found it a very spiritual location. 

Tea Ceremony

Ray and I

forgot the red linen tablecloth;

instead we used a pink and blue one

my mother had given us

when we moved in

together. His mother did not know

until, by accident,

his sister mentioned lunch, two weeks before,

and out of the bag it leapt.

She’s come

to tea to check out me, to see

if I can hit the mark.

(Ray say not to worry,

but I will, for he is proud

and wants his mother’s blessing even tough

he’s broken her most sacred law.)

Her standards will be higher

than the North Shore mountains.

If I don’t pass her tests,

life will go on

just as before,

but over time

the tea cup

will

slip

and be

brok-

      en.

[© Catherine 1999]

Day 6 of April 2016

I wrote this long ago. My last English relative had just died. Now I had no reason to go back. (But I have, more than once.)

Trains (of thought) to Victoria Station

The sun rises as I open my eyes for a trip around the world of my mind. Many stops will be shortened due to lack of funds; blood rushes to the brain as I stand on my head in a railway station lavatory. Tickets, who's got the tickets? I have, said the blind conductor, smiling as he walks away from the platform breaking into a hideous sidesplitting laughter heard all the way across the Atlantic. See you on the other side of hell, chirped the magpie priest as he doffed his miter with a two-foot blade of her Majesty's finest Wilkinson.

Perhaps prayers are in order; if sent by express post, they'll make it by Monday (only decades late for redemption) (only half­way to securing a rite of atonement) after the half-past four tea-time surrounding the Battenberg cakes left out for the paper-boy bringing by yesterday's news. Maybe if I just close me eyes, all the puzzle pieces will fall into place on the hardwood table left to me by my mother's uncle on her father's side; a present tied up with a striking red bow dripping sanity.

[1998]

Fifth Day of April

Today it's back to something older, not necessary really old. 

Tai Chi

delicate movements

                arms sweep by

weight transfers

                back to front

one hundred and five

                classical yang

raise

                hands

step

                out

stork cools its wings

                brush left knee

relax as your chi flows

                flows up your spine

                                flows through your arms

                                                flows as you pass it on

                                                                flows

                                                flows

                                flows

                flows

flows

© 2010 Surrey, BC

Day 4 of Poetry Month

What happened in Paris on November 13, 2015 affected all of us. I'd been in Paris in April and it was vibrant and live. people were walking everywhere. Families were sitting in the park beside the Eiffel Tower having picnics. Then it all changed. I honestly don't know if I'll ever go to Paris again.

13 November 2015

Paris

 Injury

  Death

   Crisis

    Terrorists

     Fear

      Stadium

       Restaurant

        Concert

         Death

          Death

           Army

            Curfew

             Borders

              Suicide

               Death

                Confusion

                 Power

                  Loss

                   Staged

                    Bombs

                     Rifles

                      Death

                       Death

                        Death

                         Sorrow

                          Anger

                           Religion

                            Freedom

                             Forgiveness

                              Love

                               Solidarity

                                Paris

                                 Life

                                  Life

                                   Life

                                    Tomorrow?

© Catherine Woods November 2015

The Third Day (of Poetry Month)

The world today seems conflicted and at odds with itself. More than I ever remember it being before. So I worry about all of us.

Who says I am not coloured?
        for Maya

And this day too will pass

onto a blackened nightfall;

I see you from the inside out.

The skin to a cover only (not a brick wall;

not a locked door; not a

sentence of death) to keep the weather

from the heart and lungs.

Do you see me crawl?

I do not call for help

from any of you back-boys.

Must you shout the truth about

our destiny? Is it not yours also?

The mask you wear reflects the light

of all returning souls. It is the

brightness of our lives that gives

the heaven fruit. Not the

pigment of our skins.

I am as black

as white will

closet you.

[© Catherine 1999]

Day 2 of Poetry Month

I promised something older today. Here it is. I worked with Jason about eight years ago. The photograph may be available on his website.

Ambleside Fog (after photograph by Jason Cyr 11/02)

Under eerie darkened skies

she creeps

spinning her web of sweet deception

alone; she sees

the dawn of each new day’s reward.

The blades of grass left short by independent means,

left undisturbed by all but

fairy wings that flutter through as

whimsical lyrics, visible to only artists, paramours and thieves.

Her arias sweep away their misty past acquaintances,

and eye the stormy air ahead. She waits (as cats lives everlasting)

to dream and feel refreshed as warmth returns

her to her fabled resting place.

Among the clouds, she drifts for yet another chance

to live, to venture forth, to know her own existence.

[© 2002]

First day of April - Poetry Month

I'm going to post a new poem every day this April. Seriously!

Today's is relatively new. Tomorrow's will be older. I'll try to alternate throughout the month.

Say Goodbye 1

Standing alone at airport security, I wave at you

before you turn to leave me. In Canada, by myself.

You say you don’t fit in here. You say

you can’t live in my house with my dogs

and my furniture and my books and my past.

The creaky living room floor doesn’t remind you of a 2010 Christmas party.

The wall-to-wall bookshelves in the cozy den don’t wrap you like a warm Irish blanket.

The repetitive falling of leaves and hours of raking don’t bring back a childhood of memories

of mom and dad and the dogs, Buster and Cloe, on a crisp October Sunday.

You didn’t grow up in this home.

I brought you here hoping it would ease your pain,

but all I’ve done is pushed you away.

You didn’t ask me to go back with you.

You knew I’m not ready to leave.

Standing alone at the picture window in my old brick cocoon, I wave at children walking by.

© Catherine Woods March 2016